I've stuggled with depression and PTSD my entire life, and have always known that suicide is my inevitable outcome. Life simply holds little joy or meaning for me no matter what I accomplish or do. By my late twenties, my plan was to put my head down, work hard, accomplish whatever I could, and have as many amazing experiences as possible, as kind of a "fuck you" to anyone who would question my desire to die. I felt like I could validate my suicide if I achieved great things and still remained empty and devoid of purpose.
I made it through a nursing program at a local trade school. I started working in a rewarding career helping some of the most vulnerable children. I transferred to a university. I earned multiple degrees. President of my honors program, 4.0 GPA. I traveled the world. I worked a variety of interesting side gigs (became a legal researcher, poet, writer). And I still wanted to die.
And I ate. I ate whatever I wanted, whenever I wanted. My BMI was 60, I had to special order clothing to fit me because even plus size sections often didn't go large enough, and I was getting closer to walmart scooter status. Eating was sort of a passive suicide, sort of like an appetizer before the main course.
And then I won a prestigious scholarship that would pay for grad school, stipends, pretty much assured that I could have any future I chose. It paid for travel, got me noticed by Ivy Leagues, had senators sending me letters and organizations reaching out to me to speak, travel, and work. All the work I did to justify my right to commit suicide ended up offering me a future I wasn't sure I wanted.
Well, shit. What now? I spent so much time running myself ragged, continuing on only because I told myself repeatedly "just a little bit more, and it can all be over."
So I did what I always did: "Let me try hard, and when it becomes too much or doesn't work, I'll just kill myself." (I know it's fucked up, but a lot of what I've achieved in my life has been a result of risk-taking and willingness to do whatever it takes because if I fail, I always have an out). I remember treating myself at a steakhouse for a last meal before starting, and thinking "this is the last time I'll eat this, because I'm gonna to kill myself once I give up."
I committed, and in just over a year, I lost a shitload of weight. Six months of zero carbs, high protein, moderate fat, extremely low calorie, but all monitored by doctors with blood/labwork to assess, reassess, and alter/update nutrition and exercise as needed. Light walking/hobbling because that's all I could tolerate, to 10k speedwalking (it may look dumb, but my knees are fucking gucci even after pounding pavement for hours). It was hard. Lots of tears. So much pain. Withdrawing from the world so that I could survive the hunger and the deep desires to binge, knowing I wasn't strong enough to be around food at all. Giving my money to my mother to hold because I knew I couldn't resist buying food. Smiling, chewing up and spitting out the food people pushed on me because I was hiding my weight loss journey. Developing new anxieties about food/exercise, and finding out I had so many issues/behaviors/flaws that I never addressed because it was buried under the weight. It came off, and it came off fast.
It didn't cure my suicidal ideations, but it did open up a new world for me, and give me plenty of new adventures and experiences. I moved to an idyllic city in central Europe and crisscrossed the continent for half a year. I took on new challenges, had actual relationships, went out and did all sorts of things I never could. I took new risks at work, became a nursing instructor and trainer. I experienced human relationships in a totally different way. It's just a different world when you grow up extremely obese -- I flipped out the first time I felt my collarbones, still can't process fitting into the seats on public transit, figuring out how to function when I'm seen as an attractive woman rather than a non-sexual being. I still told myself "just a little bit more, and it can all be over." The weight loss keeps unlocking new doors, and I can't seem to run out of things to do.
There will always be nights I stare up at bed my bedroom ceiling and wonder what I'd do with some train tracks and just a little more courage. A part of me will always want to die, and that's just something I'm learning to live with.
Last week, I did my weekly 10-mile hike, then broke out the sewing needle to take in a blouse that is too big on me, and calculated the timeline for finishing a second doctorate. I checked the scale -- Bam. Literally at the weight I was at 12 years old. Got a text from someone awesome I trained last year excited that we'd be working the same shift. Multiple invites to events and parties this month. Exam grades posted, and I crushed it. Three years out from when I started, this is my life now.
I called my Mother and said "Holy fuck, Mom. I think I'm gonna live to be old."
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